To Restore Order
by Jean Schramme
Summary: Decades after the Empire's fall, the First Order builds its strength and prepares for the day it can topple the anarchic Republic and restore the stability of its Empire. At its vanguard are a new generation of Stormtroopers, trained and indoctrinated from birth, taken from slums and orphanages with promises of a better life. This is their story.
1. A Day in the Life

"Three to dirt. FL-6026, you have the point."

The helmet only filtered scents and senses coming in, it did little to prevent anything already inside its confines. Right now FL-6026's world was _sweat_ , forming on his brow, assailing his senses, dripping into his eyes as he tried to focus on his HUD. The Sergeant's words were still sounding in his ears.

 _You have the point_.

There was only one way out of an Atmospheric Assault Lander. And one way for blasterfire to come in.

But the Sergeant wouldn't have picked a stormtrooper they didn't trust to have the point.

FL-6026-Sixer-took a deep breath before he spoke, wincing at the faint shake he heard in his words. "Roger, Sergeant."

There was no comforting hand on his shoulder, no private comm acknowledgement of faith and trust. FL-6024 and his comrades were stormtroopers of the First Order-they didn't _need_ that.

Or at least that's what the Sergeant said.

The AAL shook as the atmosphere buffeted the light craft, and the troopers swayed back and forth where they stood, unconcerned. For the most part. There were sounds all of them knew and recognized as unconscious giveaways. When you spent time in anonymous armor twenty-four-seven, you learned to identify your comrades by their little tics. Gunner and Bearer, the repeater blaster crewers who'd loved their jobs so much they'd taken their roles as names, were breathing harshly through their noses, just as in sync in body as they were on the gun. Scry had her head faintly bowed, and even without hearing Sixer knew she was murmuring some prayer in her native language, a last remnant of her past that even General Hux's training regimen and the tutelage of Captains Cardinal and Phasma had been unable to stamp out. Deuce was carrying out a functions check on his rifle like it was a talisman.

General Hux-the original one, Brendol-had been big on conformity, but for whatever reason he'd never given orders to stamp out the nicknames, provided they weren't used around him. It was whispered he was an admirer of the Clone Troopers of the Old Republic-and perhaps those names reminded him of those warriors of old.

"One to dirt." If the Sergeant had a nickname, Sixer had yet to learn it. "Safeties off."

Clicks, whines, and other metallic noises sounded as the troopers readied their weapons. Sixer took a deep breath, snugging the stock against his shoulder. He could hear explosions sounding outside the craft now, and he tilted his head. "Sergeant, it sounds like it's hot out there. We might want to find another LZ."

"Acknowledged," came the toneless reply. "Thirty to dirt."

Sixer frowned behind his helmet, feeling his heart rate pick up. Flying into a landing zone being pounded by indirect fire seemed to fly in the face of all his lessons. "Sergeant, we're going to take heavy casualties-"

"Acknowledged," repeated the squad leader, voice still flat. "Ten to dirt…five...four...three...two...one-"

With a jerk the landing craft came to a halt and landed, boarding ramp lowering and revealing an artillery-cratered battlefield beyond. As Sixer had predicted shellfire was already raining down, explosions wracking the landing zone the troopers were going to debark into. There was no cover.

"Let's go!" Action always brought out the Sergeant's suppressed emotions. "FL-6026, _move_!"

They were going to die if they charged out there.

But orders were orders.

And a Stormtrooper of the First Order _always_ followed orders.

Sixer charged forward, and as soon as he cleared the troop bay thunder roared in his ear. His field of vision spun wildly-he didn't even feel the blast hit him-and his world went black.

When he came to, his world was glossy black. White figures with different colored blobs perched atop them loomed over him, quietly murmuring to each other. Sixer blinked, and the figures resolved themselves into the troopers of his squad.

One of them-Deuce, judging by his fishbelly-pale skin-turned round to wave at someone. "Sergeant, he's waking up."

The figure that approached still had its helmet on, but the Sergeant's black pauldron was identifier enough. "FL-6026. Still among the living, I see."

Sixer rolled his shoulders, immediately trying to sit up in his hospital bed as his mind immediately shrieked at him to go to as close to a parade rest as he could. "Sergeant, I-"

The Sergeant raised a hand, and Sixer subsided. "Good work. Even live-fire exercises can get boring, I know. And I think you learned a lesson today. All of you, even those of you who didn't end up too close to an artillery simulator, should have. One of you tell me what it was?"

Gunner and Bearer, ever the double act, braced to parade rest. Though Gunner was female and Bearer a male, even their voices sounded similar. "Always follow orders, Sergeant."

"Thank you." The Sergeant's low contralto had a hint of pride in it; though restrained, she did take care to show every now and again when she appreciated the progress of the soldiers she mentored. "We live to serve the First Order, and everything we do advances its path to bringing back stability to the galaxy. Even our deaths. No one, from FL-6026 here on up, is unexpendable. We follow orders, we get the job done for the Order-no matter what the cost. Am I understood?"

As one, the squad chorused back an affirmative.

"Excellent. Carry on. And one of you see to it FL-6026 gets himself some food."

There were officers in the cafeteria that day. Sixer and the others took care to give them a wide berth, wary of their lack of armor, of the _power_ that came with the commission and tunic and cuff rank. There were stormtroopers among the figures in fabric, easily identifiable by their ramrod posture, their shaved-short hair and how they grouped with others of their ilk. The Navy officers, and even the NCOs, were seemingly more lax in their bearing and grooming, though Sixer had no doubt they still outclassed any crewer or officer in Republic or Resistance service.

But even in the uniformity of the officer corps, some figures managed to stand out.

"Up front, head table," muttered Scry around a mouthful of protein cube. "Is that General Hux?"

Deuce stiffened, pale skin growing paler still as he lowered his fork. "Nobody called the room to attention-"

"Should we call it?" Bearer's watery eyes nervously glanced to Gunner on his right.

Gunner, nonchalant as ever, just gave her partner a smirk that suited her elfin features rather well. "You want to be the one who calls the room to attention for a Sergeant who happens to be a redhead?"

"It's Hux, I'm telling you," snapped Scry. "We-ROOM TEN- _SHUN!_ "

Sixer reacted instinctively, awestruck as always by the sound the other hundreds of soldiers and crewers in the room made as they all shot to their feet and braced to attention at the same time.

But the voice that put them at ease wasn't the harsh yet polished tones of the General. It was a low baritone, filtered through a mask. "At ease."

As they settled down, Sixer saw that Scry had gone just as pale as Deuce. He didn't dare turn round. "Is that-"

She nodded, eyes wide as he resumed eating her protein cubes. Even jaunty Gunner looked tense.

It wasn't entirely uncalled for. Kylo Ren _never_ came round trooper territory. Not for pleasant reasons.

"What's he doing," muttered Sixer. Scry was the only one who had eyes-on the eminent personnel at the back of the room.

"He's...he's taking his mask off." She sounded shocked. "He looks…"

The others leaned in, and Sixer was aware of the tension in his voice. "What? He looks like what?"

"I dunno. He's turned away, talking to the General. His hood's hiding his face." Scry shook her head, taking a deep breath to calm herself. "I think that might be for the best."

"I bet you he's not bad-looking at all," said Sixer, surprising himself with the irreverent words. "Like someone like that's gotta keep _fit_ to handle all that CQB-"

Gunner was grinning like a gargoyle, opportunity to tease Sixer overcoming her tension from the Jedi Killer's presence. "Well well well, got a little crush there Sixer?"

He could feel his cheeks flushing bright red; Gunner's attention had a way of doing that to him. "Look, I'm just saying-"

"And I'm just saying his mask's back on," hissed Scry. "He's coming our way."

Even Gunner shut up at that, and the troopers fell silent. They could feel the Dark Side warrior's approach: silence followed in his wake, but there was a chill in the air too, more imagined than felt. Maybe. Some of the older troopers, the very few remaining Imperial veterans, had seen Force-users in action. But to Sixer's generation it was more theory and stories than reality.

He must have thought that a little too loud, because as the robed figure swept past their table, it stopped short. Slowly, the mask turned to regard Sixer and his comrades, tilting almost quizzically.

Sixer could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. Scry's eyes were closed, her head cast down. He knew she was praying again.

The mask swept the table's occupants….and then Kylo Ren moved off, all without having said a word.

For the troopers, it was probably the closest they'd come to staring down death itself. For a few minutes, no one spoke.

Eventually, when he'd distracted himself with enough protein cubes, Sixer decided to break the silence. "Well. Bet you that was Hux after all."

"Impossible," said Deuce, skin finally approaching a more natural shade of pale. "No grand speech."

Snickers at that, quickly suppressed, but Gunner gave Deuce a dirty look. "That man's responsible for the soldier you are today, watch your tongue."

"I just wish I had that coat of his." Bearer had managed to recover some of his good humor too. "Think I could get a commission?"

"It's for senior officers only, I think," said Scry, dourly picking at her protein cubes. "Besides, you have to forget how to use sleeves."

Sixer snickered again. The General's preference for occasionally using his coat as a cape was one of his well-known idiosyncrasies. "I imagine when you're as good an officer as he is, you can get away with that."

"You just wish you looked as good as he does with it," retorted Gunner.

Bearer smirked as he took a swig of his water." _Now_ who's got a crush, eh?"

Gunner didn't get a chance to answer back; there was a brief crackle and the ship's PA came to life: "Now hear this-all FL Corps trainees, report to assigned classrooms for afternoon instruction."

Sixer got to his feet, moving to bus his tray. "Heard we're getting trained on calling for fires today."

"Artillery?" Scry perked up. "Always nice to have the hand of the gods on our side."

"Too right." Gunner chugged the rest of her water. "Always nice to have more toys to smash the Republic and the Resistance's dogs."

"Bring some of that peace and order back with super fire power." Sixer laughed as he tugged on his helmet. Once upon a time he'd been a child roaming the streets of Ketaris, scrabbling for food, for water, for survival. He'd never had friends, no siblings, and sometimes Sixer wondered how that lonely boy would've felt knowing that this purpose, this calling and dedication, lay ahead of him. That he would one day be one of the galaxy's finest and would help topple the anarchy that reigned over it.

That one day he would have comrades like these, all shaped, molded and sculpted into the First Order's finest. Identical in purpose, capability and appearance. Men and women he could count on to have his back in a way that street urchin never could have.

Maybe that kid would have looked up at the night sky with a little more hope.

The man he'd become, however, knew that the future for him, his comrades and the galaxy under the First Order was just as bright as those stars.


	2. Matters of Discipline

"Testing. You read me alright, Sixer?"

Sixer glared at the riot of words and color that was his helmet's HUD. Even after having been familiarized with it since he was a child, even after having gone through innumerable live-fire exercises where knowing his kit made the difference between life and death, he _still_ had trouble setting his comm to a private channel.

Trying to keep his grumbling to a minimum, he finally blinked at the proper sensor. "Ahh-Scry, reckon we should stay radio silent, yeah? Could be trouble."

"If you really want to." Scry sounded bored, and it wasn't like Sixer could blame her at all. Yesterday the FL Corps had completed their instruction on critical facility security, and Captain Phasma had divvied up key stations on _Finalizer_ for the troopers to put their instruction into action. The chrome-plated hand of god had directed Sixer and Scry to the bridge before moving on to task their fellow trainees, and the duo had shared a private celebration over the privilege of guarding such an important area of the ship.

The celebration had rapidly dimmed after about five minutes. Posted on opposite sides of the entryway, unable to relax and having to snap to attention for anyone who outranked them (which was pretty much almost everyone coming onto the bridge), boredom hadn't taken long to set in for the two troopers.

Since they were on duty, neither trooper would dare actually speak face-to-face with helmet speakers. But private comm channels were a whole other matter entirely.

Sixer shuddered. If private channels were _not_ permitted and the Sergeant-or worse yet, one of the officers, or Force forbid Captain Phasma-happened to intercept a transmission, _trouble_ would be a woefully inadequate description of what Sixer and Scry would be in.

A flash of black out the corner of his vision caught Sixer's attention-and he could feel the blood drain from his face. "Bloody-Scry, ten- _shun_!"

Conditioning kicked in and both soldiers snapped to attention, just in time for a figure in charcoal uniform to stride past, hands clasped behind his back and sharp features held imperiously high. Even in a uniform whose only distinguishing features were the silver-and-black trim on its cuffs, it was impossible to mistake General Armitage Hux for anyone else.

Sixer tracked the General with his eyes, not daring to turn his helmet as the man strode past. Hux looked every inch the confident strategist that every trooper was told he was, but the man was _young_. Far younger than a lot of the other senior officers in First Order service. And for all that the man had pioneered the grand strategy of the First Order's ascent, and for everything he had done to make the stormtroopers the pinnacle of professionalism they were, Sixer had never once heard of him taking the field personally.

But those were foolish thoughts, hardly worthy of a Stormtrooper of the First Order. Armitage had proven his excellence in his trade time and time again. And without Armitage, Sixer and his comrades wouldn't come close to being a force that could match the Resistance's dogs.

Sixer shook his head faintly. No, he had no reason to be thinking like that.

"No coat-cape today?" said Scry, once more back on the private channel.

"Probably too hot on the bridge." Sixer swivelled his helmet, slowly as he dared, to see what the General was up to. Hux was standing in front of the bridge viewports, still at his preferred posture of parade rest, not conversing with anyone as he stared out at the Unknown Regions stars beyond. One or two officers and NCOs looked like they were about to approach him for conversation, but clearly thought better of it.

Sixer would probably have done the same, but then again a mere stormtrooper didn't approach an officer of any rank without being summoned.

"So where'd Gunner and Bearer get posted?"

Sixer took his eyes off of the General, frowning at his squadmate's words. "Uhhh, I think it was the reactor core access."

"Oof." Scry shook her head. "At least here we get to people watch."

"Deuce is in the detention cells too. Solo post."

"Fitting." Scry rolled her helmeted head, lazily casting her gaze round the bridge. "Never thought I'd say this, but I almost miss the live-fire exercises."

Sixer barked a laugh. "Almost? Action is _way_ better than standing sentry. We might've graduated basic training but I could do with an actual scrap with the Resistance."

Silence for a few seconds, then Scry's voice came back. "Not the Republic?"

"Nah." Sixer shook his head. "They're more interested in growing fat and happy off their corruption than taking the fight to us. The Resistance is by far the more dangerous of the two."

"I'm pretty sure the Republic's just using them as a proxy," said Scry, "too easy to outsource the dirty work like that rather than actually sully their own hands with some hard work and courage."

"Yeah, but-"

This time it was Scry's turn to spot approaching eminence. "Shit-ten - _shun_."

Once more both troopers snapped to-and this time Sixer spied a flash of chrome-plated trooper armor and an armorweave cape approaching like an oncoming storm. Captain Phasma always walked like she was on parade, upright, proud, the embodiment of everything a Stormtrooper of the First Order aspired to be. Though red-armored Captain Cardinal had trained them as youths and made them from children into soldiers, it had been Phasma who had refined the raw material, who had finished honing them, and whose armored visage appeared on posters on every ship from the _Finalizer_ to the lowliest patrol frigate.

And truth be told, it was Phasma who held primacy in the minds of the First Order's soldiers.

But right now, Sixer's mind was focused on praying that Phasma wasn't about to take him and Scry to task for their private banter.

But Scry's gods were with them, and the Captain swept past with only an 'as you were' to the sentries. Ignoring the awed looks of the enlisted crewers on the bridge, she strode over to where Hux was continuing to look out at the stars. Though nothing filtered back to Sixer or Scry, it was clear the pair were talking about something.

"Scrag," murmured Sixer. "Think Kylo Ren will be showing up?"

There was static, as if Scry had keyed her comm before she was ready to talk."Hmm...I'll bet you our dessert ration tonight he does."

"Deal."

If ever a Stormtrooper could be said to look gleeful, it would be Sixer in the mess that night, happily munching on his second brownie with a beatific grin. Scry, opposite him, just glared glumly at her protein cubes.

Gunner and Bearer were sitting opposite the pair, happily pooling their resources to make some kind of protein-cube-and-broth stew. Deuce was absent, still on duty in the detention cells.

"You know," Sixer said around a mouthful of brownie, "that looks absolutely horrific."

Bearer finished pouring a helping of the impromptu stew into Gunner's bowl, shot Sixer a mock-haughty look as he affected General Hux's clipped tones. "Culture is never appreciated by society's inferiors."

"Tastes better than it looks too," put in Gunner, happily giving her helping an extra stir. "At least it actually tastes like something, you know?"

Scry just shook her head. "How in the galaxy will you two cope if you wind up with rations that don't mix as well?"

"Better than an overweight soldier who cannot fight," put in an all-too-familiar voice

The four troopers' heads snapped over to the new arrival, and just as they feared, there was Captain Phasma, looming over their table. The Captain nodded to indicate Sixer, who lowered the remains of his second brownie with a worried swallow.

"FL-6026, why are you consuming extra dessert rations?"

Sixer coughed, looking to Scry. Phasma was said to have memorized every trooper's number, and times like this when his helmet's tally marker was offline, he could believe it. "It was-um, it was a reward, Ma'am. FL-3811 and I made a bet while standing sentry duty."

The Captain's posture straightened, emotionless helmet somehow adopting a warning expression. "And how did this bet increase your ability to perform your duties? Particularly when it might compromise your combat-effectiveness with its results. FL-3811, perhaps you would care to answer?"

Scry's dark-skinned features were schooled to a mask of disciplined blankness. "Ma'am, the bet was whether or not we would see particular high-ranking personnel while standing watch on the bridge of _Finalizer_. This added incentive permitted us to be extra-attentive to our duties, beyond the standard of excellence that we hold ourselves to at all times."

"Indeed?" Phasma didn't sound convinced, but then again she didn't have the usual warning tones of tranquil fury that preceded a punishment. "Perhaps you need to learn how to rise above the standards without extra incentives. Starting tomorrow, you will both forfeit dessert rations for the next week."

So much for escaping punishment. Both Sixer and Scry nodded, Sixer not bothering to hide his glum look.

"And FL-6026?"

"Ma'am?"

"Provide FL-3811 with the remainder of your extra ration."

Sixer nodded and reached down to pass the bite-marked brownie over to Scry, who began to eat it with as small bites as she could muster.

Phasma inclined her helmet and turned to pace off. The quartet watched her go, expressions somber.

"Could be worse," murmured Bearer. "Bet you the Sergeant would've put you two on half-rations for the same amount of time."

Sixer shot his squadmate a glare."Why didn't she take you to task about your stew?"

"All lean protein and veggies?" Gunner shrugged. "No need to worry about chunky troopers from that."

"I'll remember that when you need cover fire to set up your repeater..."

Gunner snickered, but opposite Sixer, Scry reached to him-in her hand was a piece of brownie, half of the remainder.

He looked at her, confused, but she just smiled.

Sixer flashed her a brief grin, and took the brownie. The remaining chocolate vanished down his throat like a Sarlacc's meal.

The Sergeant was in fine spirits today; the fact that one of her trainee squads had finally been tasked with a proper mission might've had something to do with that.

Behind the Sergeant hung a hologram of a blue-and-green garden world, with the lights of large settlements and industry visible from space. Every now and again she would point at a pertinent piece of data or a location but for Sixer it meant one thing-a deployment.

"This world is called Moroni by its inhabitants. It is a relatively self-sufficient, self-contained society with the Unknown Regions, and has expressed interest in lending its resources to the Order in exchange for our protection. A meeting between our leadership and the planetary government will take place here-" The holo changed from the planet to a city of soaring spires, elegantly designed architecture and hurtling lines of air traffic. "-Kandani, the capital. As both a protective measure and a show of force, your squad will be providing close protection for our delegation. Yes, FL-9122?"

Deuce put his hand down, posture pensive as he regarded the map. If his solo stint in the brig had annoyed him at all, he'd yet to show it. "Sergeant, who will be on the delegation? We'd need more than more than one squad to protect the Supreme Leader."

The Sergeant nodded. "Very perceptive, FL-9122. No, Supreme Leader Snoke will remain where he always has. The delegation will consist of General Hux and Captain Phasma. I know what you're thinking-we have dedicated outreach officers, or we could always send more subordinate senior leadership. Why risk two out of the three members of _Finalizer_ 's leadership?"

Sixer's eyes flicked round the squad; it was clear they _had_ all been thinking that indeed. The Sergeant remained silent, as if waiting for someone to offer an explanation.

Scry raised her hand. "Sergeant, is it to show them the seriousness with which we take such an offer, and the respect we bestow upon those who would be allies voluntarily?"

"To a degree." The Sergeant inclined her head in acknowledgement. "But even then we would typically send a Colonel and a diplomatic team, let alone the Captain."

"Sergeant, is it because of their manufacturing capacity?" Sixer blinked as he closed his mouth; he hadn't thought he'd spoken aloud.

But the NCO snapped her armored fingers and nodded at Sixer. "Exactly. Moroni's manufacturing capabilities, to say nothing of its mining industry and mineral deposits, make it almost invaluable to the Order. By sending the General and Captain to represent us, we're making a statement, one that hopefully will make them more amenable to any terms we may wish to impose. Not that it matters if they oppose them, of course."

Nods at that. Moroni's government had already cast the die by approaching the Order, it was far too late to back out now.

But that did beg a question, and it was Gunner who asked it. "Any word on dissent within the government or the populace about the decision to approach the First Order?"

"The Security Bureau has been unable to uncover any, but that doesn't mean there _isn't_ any." The Sergeant inclined her head. "I don't think it needs to be said I expect the utmost of professionalism from your squad on this mission. You're almost done your advanced training-and you have a unique opportunity to show the Order's highest-ranking officials what you are capable of. Are there any further questions?"

Glances around the briefing room, but there were indeed none.

"Very well, let us get down to details. We'll be landing at the spaceport here..."


	3. Close Protection

Sixer hadn't expected the team to be riding an AAL down to Moroni's surface, but it was still surreal to be sitting in the cavernous passenger bay of an _Upsilon_ -class shuttle. The massive bat-winged craft were typically reserved for _very_ senior officers, and while troopers were fully briefed on their specs and capabilities, it wasn't the sort of aircraft that the FL Corps' green soldiers expected to be using all that often.

Of course, they hadn't expected to have five of their own tapped to play honor guard for two of the First Order's most senior leaders.

The five troopers of Sixer's squad sat motionless in the passenger bay, weapons stowed helmets locked forward. No one had put them at ease; accordingly, no one moved-more out of training than fear.

Not that fear wasn't present, considering who else was sitting in the troop bay with the soldiers.

Captain Phasma was directly opposite Sixer, a chromium statue. She'd said all of four words to the squad upon meeting them in the hangar-fall in, take seats-and then she'd fallen silent. Her looming presence had dissuaded any attempts at chat among private comms; there was no telling whether or not she'd be listening in.

And her reaction would be little compared to the fiery temper of the figure next to her. General Armitage Hux, clad in his charcoal uniform, complete with the trademark black officer's overcoat. The General hadn't even said two words to the stormtroopers, settling down opposite them and immediately producing a datapad to peruse.

The intercom crackled to life with the voice of their pilot. "Five minutes out, Sir."

Hux's eyes flicked up, brows briefly knitting in irritation that his reading had been interrupted, before returning to his datapad once more. "Very well."

Like the voice of an oracle, Captain Phasma's voice emanated from her motionless form. "Check equipment."

Sixer reached down to secure his F-11d rifle from where it was secured next to his acceleration chair. Next to him he could sense Scry and Deuce doing the same, with the unison of unit cohesion that had been drilled into them since day one under the gaze of Captain Cardinal's red-hued helmet. A quick check of the safety, fire selector switch and scope confirmed that the weapon was in good working order.

Without moving his helmet, Sixer's eyes flicked from Phasma to Hux. The Captain was still unmoving, though in the few seconds since last he'd looked at her she'd produced her custom chrome rifle. The General was still looking at his datapad.

Down the aisle, Gunner and Bearer were on their feet and carrying out checks on the FWMB-10 repeater, the "megablaster" that was the mainstay heavy weapon for an individual infantry team. Gunner had finished carrying out a functions check on her weapon, turning to confirm that Bearer had properly his pack with spare ammunition. Once Bearer had returned the favor and confirmed that Gunner's chest webbing was set up properly, the duo slapped each other on the chestplate-their usual pre-mission ritual.

At the clank of armor, General Hux's face snapped up to regard the two troopers, eyes blazing. The young officer's face was admirably well-suited to express irritation and disdain, and right now the troopers were getting a marvelous object lesson in that fact.

Gunner and Bearer froze, uncertain how to react. Nothing in their training had covered _this_. Sixer, Scry and Deuce had frozen, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

Hux's clipped tones were cold as carbonite. "FL-9877. FL-4120. Is there an issue between you that needs conflict resolution?"

Both troopers braced to attention; as gun team leader, the duty of spokeswoman fell to Gunner. "No Sir!"

Hux's eyes flicked over to Bearer. "Then what was that. FL-4120?"

Bearer, ever nervous around senior leadership, was able to keep his voice under something approximating control. "S-Sir! Just a pre-mission ritual, Sir."

"It's for good luck, Sir," added Gunner.

"I was not speaking to you, FL-9877." Hux bit off every piece of Gunner's reference number. "FL-4120, do you believe your training has been in any way deficient?"

Fortunately Bearer had presence of mind enough to know the right answer to that question. "No Sir!"

"Then why do you believe you need luck, if your training is up to the task?"

No answer to that, from either of the gun crew. Sixer held his tongue too. Captain Phasma hadn't moved from her seat but he had no doubt she'd leap on any perceived deficiencies among the troopers in front of General Hux.

For once, Gunner seemed distinctly unsure of herself, picking her words carefully as she answered. "It's...well I suppose it's instinct, Sir. No excuse. It won't happen again."

"Hmph." Hux sniffed, and returned his attention to his datapad. Clearly the interrogation was complete. Gunner and Bearer slowly sat down, helmets nervously glancing down to their comrades. But before anyone could offer words of support, a new voice crackled over their helmet comms.

"A warrior must have their rituals," came Captain Phasma's contralto, lacking its usual icily peremptory tones. It almost sounded _understanding_. "Even stormtroopers of the First Order are not above such things. But not everyone will understand them. Not everyone will appreciate them. Be smart."

Sixer swallowed within his helmet. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper. "Yes Ma'am."

There was a click, and Phasma's comm went dead.

"Did she just…?" Deuce's voice held a hint of wonder.

Silence for a few seconds, as if waiting for the Captain to swoop on them like the wrath of Supreme Leader Snoke himself...but Phasma had once more gone back to her impassive observation.

"I think she did," said Scry. Her helmet was tilted, regarding the Captain with a wary eye. And without looking Sixer could see her hand straying to the pouch on her belt where she kept her arrowhead totem. "Maybe she understands better than we thought."

"Let's not push it," broke in Gunner, sounding decidedly less cheerful than usual. "Bearer and I will have the point. Deuce, Sixer, left and right. Scry, you're tail-end charlie."

Scry's helmet slowly rotated to regard Gunner; the two troopers had worked well as team members but they'd never been particularly close off the line. "And who put you in charge?"

Bearer tensed, ready to defend his partner, but Sixer shook his head. "Not here, you two. Not the place, not the time. Gunner's plan is sound, though. Let's roll with it, OK?"

Scry's shoulderplates relaxed, but she nodded her assent. Bearer regarded her for a second more, then turned to regard the front of the passenger bay, quietly brooding.

Sixer's eyes flicked over to the eminent duo, but if Hux or Phasma were aware of the brief dispute, it hadn't warranted their attention. The General was still reading his datapad, the Captain conducting a quick functions check of her rifle.

Once again the pilot's voice sounded over the intercom: "One minute to landing, General."

With a sigh, Hux secured his datapad and stood to his feet. "Very well."

Phasma stood up. "On your feet, troopers."

As one, the squad stood up, forming up per Gunner's recommendation. Sixer could almost see the repeater gunner grinning behind her helmet as she cradled her weapon close. At the sound of shifting fabric, he glanced to his left to spy General Hux. The man looked even younger up close, but there was something in his eyes, a fire that Sixer wasn't entirely sure what to make of. That fire had forged the Stormtroopers and First Order military into the finest force in the galaxy, but it didn't look like the kind of fire that was easily extinguished either.

So much the better for the Order.

There was a hiss of hydraulics, and the shuttle ramp descended. Gunner and Bearer disembarked first, sweeping the area with their helmets even as blasters were kept at the low-ready. Captain Phasma was right behind them, staring straight ahead to see who met them. Sixer took a deep breath, a step forward, and then he was marching in stride with Hux and Deuce, Scry right behind them, as he took his first steps onto Moroni soil.

Or rather, his first steps onto Moroni steel.

He'd seen the holos, but Sixer had never set foot in a massive city like this before. The skyline was a riot of colors, aircraft whizzing by and a babble of noises all meshing together to form an omnipresent rumble. They'd landed on a pad high up, but the spires of the skyline still ascended into the clouds above, and they couldn't see the bottom of the building either. It was almost sensory overload.

For Scry, it _was_ sensory overload; they could all hear her breathing pick up a little within her helmet. Not surprising, considering the backwater colony she was from.

"Calm." The voice on the comm was the Captain's, back to its usual icy demeanor. "Watch those skybridges."

"Movement front, Ma'am," came Bearer, voice tense.

"That will be the delegation. Keep your weapons down but stay alert."

Phasma fell silent, and so too did the other troopers. Up ahead a motley crowd of humans and aliens-some Sixer had never seen before-were sweeping forward. They were clad in sober, uptight attire, some with extra decorations to denote particular rank and status. The lead figure was smiling, spreading his arms in a gesture of welcome-but the beings behind him looked much less welcoming.

And then the walkway exploded beneath the approaching natives. At the same time, a series of explosions wracked the landing pad, turning the looming silhouette of the shuttle into a slag heap.

The Captain had called it with the skybridges: blasterfire, low in accuracy but high in volume, was already surging forth from balconies and bridges. Someone-Sixer couldn't tell if it was Gunner or Scry-barked a curse over the comm, but training soon kicked in and the stormtroopers were moving to levy return fire at the enemy positions, trying to suppress the gunmen.

Next to him, he could see Hux's eyes widen in shock, and for a brief second he looked the youthful figure he was rather than the hardened general officer he'd been made out to be.

But Sixer wasn't the only one with extensive conditioning and training, and Hux soon resumed his air of disdainful aloofness. "Right, back to the landing pad, take cover in the wreckage!"

"Yes Sir," said Captain Phasma. "FL-9877, FL-4120, cover the withdrawal."

"On it Ma'am!" came the response from Gunner. Bearer was already helping her unlimber the pintle for the repeating blaster, setting it up on the walkway next to the scant cover provided by a few crates. Gunner slotted the weapon home, opening up with controlled bursts on the most threatening of enemy positions. The incoming fire briefly slackened, then refocused on the troopers to the front.

Sixer, meanwhile, found himself in a dilemma. His training for carrying out close protection in high-threat environments called for physically grabbing and leading the principal out of harm's way if contact was made. But one didn't simply grab General Armitage Hux, and for a second Sixer hesitated, breathing intensifying while he laid down fire of his own. If the General made his own withdrawal but noticed Sixer had failed to follow his training-

The decision was taken out of his hands by Captain Phasma, sweeping to the rear to grab Hux by the shoulder and pull him backwards. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sixer, Scry and Deuce began their own withdrawal, diving into cover among the smoldering wreckage of the shuttle.

"Set Ma'am!" called Scry.

"Very well." Phasma was coolly triggering controlled pairs at a gunman standing on a penthouse balcony. Two volleys and the man pitched forward, clutching at his chest as he plummeted into the abyss beneath the building. "Gun crew-withdraw."

"Moving!" came the shout from Gunner, breaking down her weapon's mount under cover fire from Bearer. The enemy fire was growing more accurate, slamming closer and closer to the gun crew as they hustled back towards the redoubt within the wreckage.

"Sixer, enemy at eleven o'clock high, on that balcony," called Deuce, voice steadier than Sixer had ever heard it. "Gotta displace to get a good shot on her, but she's the one who's taken some marksmanship lessons-"

"Go for it." Sixer swivelled the barrel of his rifle to lay down suppressing fire in the direction indicated. "Got you covered!"

"Roger that, moving!" barked Deuce, and broke cover to race for a better-positioned piece of wreckage.

There was a scraping sound next to Sixer, and he looked over to see Gunner and Bearer diving into cover alongside him and Scry. He must have had terrible tunnel vision not to see them coming in. "You two OK?"

"Peachy!" laughed Gunner, motioning for Bearer to help set the repeater's mount back up. "Weren't you the one who said we needed a scrap, hey?"

Sixer briefly ceased fire to look over to where Phasma and Hux were crouched behind cover. The General hadn't produced a blaster; instead he was shouting something into a commlink, expression contorted with anger. "You're not wrong, but I didn't think we'd be there with VIPs."

"Good for our career if nothing else," said Bearer, leaning back as Gunner opened up with the repeater.

Deuce, meanwhile, was duelling his chosen enemy on the balcony. Sixer could see both sides squeezing off controlled pairs. This particular fighter had to have military training of some sort; none of their other assailants had achieved this level of accuracy.

Phasma had noticed the standoff too, and looked none too impressed. "FL-222, quit toying and finish it, or take cover."

"Almost got her, Ma'am," said Deuce, voice tight with anger. "I just-"

An unfamiliar voice cut in over the comms. "Break, break, break. Ground elements, this is KE-1092. Take cover. We're coming in to extract and _Finalizer_ is about to fire for effect."

Firing for effect? But that meant- Sixer keyed his comm, trying to keep the sudden apprehension out of his voice. "Say again, Nine-Twor? Please confirm orbital gunnery support incoming."

"That's affirmative, ground, by request of the General. Our ETA is five mikes. See you soon."

Sudden fear seized Sixer, a cold weight in the pit of his gut. "Deuce! Pull back, right kriffin' now!"

"I heard 'em, moving!" Deuce was already up and running, hustling back towards cover when the heavens erupted with green fire. The turbolaser rounds slammed into the skyscraper opposite them, indiscriminately pulverizing the city around the landing platform, utterly wiping out their attackers...and anyone else who might have happened to be in those buildings.

Behind his helmet, Sixer's jaw dropped. There was knowing the destructive potential of orbital bombardment, and then there was _seeing_ it. As the smoke and dust faded he could see fires springing up in the burned out hulk of the buildings and bridges. Next to him, there was a faint whispering sound not being broadcast over the helmet comms-Scry, praying again.

Across from the troopers, General Hux was getting to his feet, irritably adjusting his overcoat and brushing off dust and debris as he scowled up at the wreckage. "Captain?"

Phasma had been regarding the bombardment, fires reflected in her chrome faceplate. "Yes, Sir."

"I want an invasion plan worked up when we withdraw to the _Finalizer_. Coordinate with the necessary officers." Hux took a deep breath, gritting his teeth. "We cannot allow such defiance go unpunished."

"Their political leadership sacrificed their lives to try and kill us." The Captain's voice was distant. "Impressive."

"Impressive or not, we will show them what it means to defy the First Order." Hux's gaze briefly flicked over to the five troopers watching the bombardment, and he stepped closer to Phasma, voice lowering.

Sixer upped the gain of the audio pickups in his helmet, but any snatches of whispered conversation he might have overheard were drowned out by the drives of another _Upsilon_ -class shuttle, descending through the smoke to land on the still-intact stretch of walkway. A quartet of other troopers disembarked to take up defensive positions-and then a figure shrouded in a mask and black robes descended the ramp.

The troopers in the wreckage froze, but Hux's expression simply grew even more aggravated at the sight of Kylo Ren.

"General Hux." If Sixer didn't know any better, he'd have sworn the baritone voice had a bit of amusement mixed in with its usual menace. "Getting acquainted with the locals?"

"Intimately," sneered the General. "I don't recall asking you personally for extraction, Ren."

"No, but I imagined anything that could put our seniormost officer at risk demanded my personal attention." Kylo Ren, looked over his shoulder at the destruction behind him.

Hux just glared and stormed off towards the shuttle, shoving past Kylo Ren, overcoat flapping behind him. Phasma exchanged masked stares with Ren, then motioned for the troopers to fall in behind her as she moved off.

Sixer and the others were already trotting off to form up in a file behind Phasma, all of them struggling to keep their thoughts quiet. Now was not the time to draw the attention of the Jedi Killer...or give him any more ammunition to use against General Hux.

But if Kylo Ren could sense the roiling thoughts of the soldiers, he paid it no mind, striding past the soldiers to precede them aboard the shuttle. Only when he had vanished into the cockpit did Sixer dare break the silence over private comms as he stowed his weapon and settled in a chair. So many sensations that he'd been able to ignore with the adrenaline and blasterfire vying for his attention crashed in on him. His lungs felt raw, sweat dripped down into his eyes. "So. Our first proper firefight."

"After-action review back on the ship, I think." Deuce sounded a new man, no trace whatsoever remained of his previous lack of certainty. "But good job."

"Need to work on getting the mount for the repeater set up faster," said Bearer. "But I think overall our skills and drills were pretty sharp."

Scry's voice was quiet, grim. "If anything, it's not us who need to work on comms. We should have known that the General was calling for fire and not found out right before _Finalizer_ 's guns went hot."

Sixer's eyes flicked over to the cockpit, where the eminent trio had gone to converse. "Steady, Scry. No telling who's listening."

There was an irritated huff over the comms, but Scry fell silent.

"I don't think we've gotten enough training for urban warfare like this," said Gunner. "Smaller cities and settlements sure, but a metropolis like this demands an entirely new mode of thinking."

Deuce gave a brief laugh. "Oh, don't worry. You heard the General, I think we'll be here for a good while yet."


End file.
